


Shenanigans in Alexandria

by YouNeedAUsername222



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: But don't read it with your grandparents, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Negan Being Negan (Walking Dead), Nothing too explicit, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27049759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouNeedAUsername222/pseuds/YouNeedAUsername222
Summary: Negan escorts Carl back to Alexandria only to find that Rick isn't there. He stays in the Grimes residence overnight. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Carl Grimes/Negan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 111





	Shenanigans in Alexandria

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally wrote this... Like my hand slipped and boom. Cegan. Three thousand words later, I'd call that a productive keyboard smash. Tell me what you think? Also I'm available for (free, of course) proofreading or collaborations, hit me up.

Carl was taken aback by the fact that Negan chose to take him back. He'd assumed he'd be nothing more than a lifeless pile of wasted cranium by the end of the day, not safe and sound in Alexandria. He couldn't deny his relief but it begged the question, what was the charming psychopath really up to? His - rather ambitious, in retrospect - assassination attempt on Negan had gone more or less unpunished, at least physically. Taking his bandage off was a pretty drastic hit to the boy's ego, not helped by Negan's disparaging comments about what was left of his eye. 

Negan had scared the living shit out of Carl countless times that day, and made it his solemn duty to creep him out - the singing! What the actual fuck had _that_ been about? He could only assume that it made sense somewhere in Negan's twisted mind. The same mind that so effortlessly wrangled and steered an empire using tactics no one else was crazy enough to. In some sick way, Carl actually found himself in awe of the guy. Every minute he spent at his side opened his eye to new possibilities; it was a learning experience more than anything, and being so close to that much power in one man was oddly addictive. Notions of different ways of doing things - different to Rick's way at least - had begun to emerge. 

Earlier during the day, Olivia had shakily told Negan that Rick and Michonne took Judith to Hilltop to get her new cough checked out. With Denise gone, they were scraping the bottom of the barrel on healthcare. If someone so much as developed a fever, they'd surely have a headless chicken situation on their hands. 

Negan had made an offhanded comment about his own care for Carl running deeper than his father's, because Rick didn't even notice his disappearance. He hated himself for the fleeting second in which he might have agreed. It stung a little but at the end of the day, Judith was more important.

Either way, Rick wouldn't be back until the next day and Negan was adamant to see him so, much to the chagrin of the gathered Alexandrians, he decided to stay the night, wrapping an arm around Carl's shoulders for effect. Maybe Carl was keen on the attention, even leaned into the touch before remembering himself and shying away. Negan told most of his men to fuck off back to the Sanctuary, instructing the remaining Saviors to make general nuisances of themselves and stay in whatever houses they chose, just not Rick's. That was _his_ territory now, as was Carl. 

So Carl was doomed to spend yet more time in Negan's exhausting company, alone in the same house. What could possibly go wrong? At least he was on his own familiar ground this time; he planned to point the man in the direction of his father's empty room and turn in for the night at the first chance he got. He'd received no such luck, however, and Negan grabbed his elbow when he tried to retreat upstairs. 

"I know it's been a stressful day, kid, but there's no way you're getting off that easy," Negan had warned and propelled him in the direction of the living room.

An hour of one-sided communicative bravado passed, and before Carl knew it, he'd walked right into a conversation with the man. A conversation in which curiosity won over and he let Negan tell him about how the Sanctuary became his home and how he attained so many smokin' hot wives. He described his first time with one of them, sparing no detail and making Carl blush a blatant, noticeable red. More mind games. His deep, husky voice didn't help, how he'd fake-flirt and wink at the boy as they talked. At least, Carl _thought_ it was fake. The blush grew deeper regardless.

At some point during late evening, Negan had disappeared and returned with a quarter-full bottle of nondescript alcohol which had Carl wondering how he'd found it. Turns out, Rick kept it under the floorboards; a hugely hypocritical trick he'd learned - stolen - from Spencer. Of course he hadn't told Carl about it, but why would he? 

It wasn't clear when Carl forgot about his situation and relaxed, even started enjoying the older man's company and most of all, attention. How he'd randomly praise Carl and make his face heat up even more. Perhaps it was around the time when they'd passed the bottle between them several times and his speech became a little slurred. It was a pleasant feeling, though he didn't notice at first. That was also the moment he realized he had no alcohol tolerance, none at all, and that he didn't want to butcher or execute Negan as much as that morning. His will had been slowly drained from him, along with the verbal filter he so relied on. 

"Call me unethical for getting a seventeen year old drunk but who's gonna care?" Negan shrugged, "not like your daddy's home to arrest me."

Negan always gave off the impression that he enjoyed Carl's pain (because he definitely did), no matter how small. He'd picked up on the fact that Rick wasn't the most present parent and used it wholeheartedly to his advantage. Carl knew that Negan could probably bash his head in unarmed and simply chose not to, but he still didn't appreciate the verbal jabs.

So he dutifully ignored him, holding his hand out for the bottle again. Negan had made himself at home like he'd moved in, putting his boots in the hallway next to Carl's and slinging his leather jacket over the coffee table. The muscles under his white shirt didn't go unnoticed by Carl, who'd caught himself staring too frequently to be labeled a Coincidence. It didn't help that Negan was splayed out on the couch, his back on the armrest and one leg straightened out behind Carl, the other foot enjoying the carpeted floor. 

Negan shook his head in response to the boy's silent request, enjoying his captive (in all senses of the word) audience who found himself unable to tear his gaze away as the man drained the last dregs of alcohol. Neither looked away as Negan's lips worked around the head of the bottle before finally placing it beside him on the coffee table with somewhat less precision than his sober self.

"Last bit is on my lips, kid, you want it? Come get it." He wore a small grin of amusement, his tongue visible at the corner of his mouth as he said this, raising his eyebrows briefly in challenge. Well there was no backing down from _that_. Carl perhaps wasn't in the right state to make the best decisions for himself, but boy, had that ever stopped him? 

He immediately straightened from his more socially acceptable position on the couch and turned to the man who'd been so blatantly and obviously hitting on him for the entire evening. An adrenalized spark of electricity bolted through him as the tension in the room became obvious enough to jar. He was so glad the house was empty of prying eyes, and silently thanked the curtains for being closed. With a confident sigh, Carl made his way up the couch to Negan's end, hands resting either side of the guy's torso. 

A flash of surprise washed over Negan's face but he quickly replaced it with cockiness as Carl clambered on top of him, thighs between his legs. Had they been standing, things would have been a little less smooth given their respective heights (and levels of intoxication). A hand was already on his lower back as if on reflex. 

Carl kissed Negan defiantly and with little thought in the way of consequences. He could taste the sweet liquid on Negan's mouth, swiping his tongue over the man's lower lip. No more than half a second passed before he felt Negan's lips moving against his, and a strong, commanding hand in his hair. It held him still while the other crept up his shirt, hardened nails meeting the soft skin of his back and making him arch into the touch.

It wasn't until he'd locked lips with Negan that he realized he had no idea what he was doing. Of course, this thought didn't daunt him in his intoxicated state. In fact, it excited him, as did the tall man underneath him who operated with the confidence of one who was five moves ahead in a chess game. 

All the songs he remembered from his childhood with lyrics pertaining to things feeling so right even though they were so wrong finally made sense. Maybe he should have sung the Casanovas for Negan earlier. Sunshine suddenly seemed like a weak choice. 

He wasn't proud of it, but Carl moaned softly into Negan's mouth when the hand in his hair tugged, fingers twisting in the strands. The man toed the line between gently stroking and possessively twining. Carl wanted to get closer but was already flush against him, the next logical step at that point would be to merge into one giant, deeply problematic being. 

Breathing heavily, Carl pulled back, flustered, and endeavored to claw back some of his sass, "should have just handed me the bottle." 

A snigger from Negan, "kid, you and I both know this would have happened regardless of where the goddamn bottle was."

A short pause ensued. Negan could practically see the wheels turning. Carl was hyper-aware of how he was still pressed against Negan and the man was still holding onto him the way a kid might to ensure their dog wouldn't dash out of the open door. Before today, the only physical contact Carl was accustomed to came from Rick and Michonne hugging him once in a blue moon and the odd head-pat from the older Alexandrians when his hat wasn't in the way. Enid also liked to grab him by the shoulders and shake him if he said something unintelligent, but somehow none of this compared to the ferocity of Negan's still hands. This was intimate, inappropriate. Negan's fingertips were surely burning marks into his hip as they prickled his skin.

"Does that mean you actually like me?" Carl challenged, unable to fend off his suspicion and accompanying jealousy any longer, "or are you just trying to get at my dad?"

"Prick's got nothing to do with this. If you can't see I'm into you and your weird, brave-stupid attitude, you need glasses, kid," Negan confessed, a hint of a mischievous smile creeping onto his handsome face, "or in your case, a monocle." 

To call the boy's expression a death glare would be generous, and because Negan wouldn't shut up even if he didn't get off to the sound of his own voice, he continued, "anyway, before I end up in your basement with a rope necklace; was that your first kiss?"

A nod prompted him to follow with "was it good?"

What a strange question. In order to not look too eager, Carl paused for thought, fooling exactly no one. Not even his very own self. A singular pupil's gaze landed on the couch next to Negan's face, "yes..."

"Good boy," Negan said, petting his hair, voice even lower than usual given their proximity, breath ghosting over Carl's lips. The boy practically _felt_ the sound reverberating into his own chest. He somehow became even more flushed and cleared his throat, pushing himself up and climbing off of Negan. He fell against the backrest of the couch, wondering what had just happened, "oh, _now_ you're shy, huh?"

He'd kissed Negan. Fucking _Negan_ of all people. The man who'd bashed in the heads of not one but two treasured members of his rapidly dwindling group, and terrorized his dad. That was another thought; Rick _really_ didn't need to know about any of this. In fact, on the _list of things Rick needs to know_ , Carl drunkenly making out with the man who had them hostage was in the quadruple digits. Worst of all, he _liked_ it. Truly, Carl intended for his regret to run a little deeper, but the combination of alcohol and being pressed against said hostage taker had incited the expected effects on his body. He thought he was past the stage of getting hard every five seconds in the most unfortunate situations. Evidently not.

"How would your wives react to you kissing someone less than half your age?" Carl provoked, if nothing else to change the subject. He clumsily concealed the tent in his jeans by putting his shirt conveniently in the way of Negan's sightline, probably overestimating the efficacy of such a move. The whole thing had aroused him more than he'd like to admit and what he wanted both most and least in the world was to climb back into Negan's lap.

A throaty chuckle from his left startled Carl as Negan sat up, ignoring his question completely and leaning forward like an impending bad decision. "Damn," he muttered, eyes flicking down to Carl's crotch, "it _was_ good. Is that a gun that looks cool in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

"Fuck off, I picked that gun 'cause it was effective. Could hardly take a revolver into a heavily armed compound run by a charmi- uh, psychopath, could I?" Carl scowled at him. He was too damn defensive.

"Just keep telling yourself that, little serial killer," Negan had begun to use that as an oddly affectionate term and Carl tried not to like it. The man placed his hand on Carl's thigh, waaaay too close to where he really wanted it, "want me to take care of that for you?"

The stubborn scowl was interrupted and somewhat overwritten by a short, resigned nod. When he looked back at the situation later, he could simply blame the alcohol that Negan shared with him. It wasn't his fault. An almost predatory grin spread across the man's face as he scrutinized Carl. Then they were kissing again, hot and rushed and with none of the gentleness of before. Who initiated it was irrelevant, Carl noted to himself decisively.

The first touch came as a surprise, Negan's hand sliding up his thigh and palming his dick through his jeans. His eyes shot open at the feeling the second time and Negan settled into a rhythm that quickly had him breathless. The warm pressure of his hand coaxed appreciative little moans from Carl, spurring Negan on enthusiastically.

"So damn responsive..." Negan noted when Carl had to pull away from his mouth, too distracted by what the man's hand was doing. Just as he was getting close, the warm pressure disappeared and they made eye contact so abruptly that Carl imagined a _clash_ sound effect. Negan could have told him to run a mile at that point and he no doubt would have done it. Or at least promised to once his raging boner was no longer an issue. 

"Angle's all wrong," was the simple, frustrating explanation. Hands under Carl's arms pulled him closer as the man leant back against the armrest again. Soon, Carl was on top of Negan again, straddling his leg. 

"Quit messing me around," the boy huffed, rearranging himself into a better position and earning a soft chuckle. Negan raised his knee to grind his thigh into Carl's crotch and reconnected their lips to shut him up. The older man's hands were everywhere; his hips, under his shirt or gripping his hair as the clumsy kiss continued. 

Carl felt like he was about to explode and ground his hips against Negan's leg in an attempt to relieve some of the unbearable pressure in his jeans. It felt good, better than it did when he did it himself. It was different, having someone else involved. 

"That's it, Carl, ride my thigh," Negan muttered. He'd noticed that Carl had a bit of a thing for his voice and made it sound extra deep and gravelly, so close to his ear. Carl just about melted into him, stuttering against his thigh in a messy rhythm. It took all of two seconds for Negan to grip his hips, controlling his movements almost entirely. Rough, tanned hands that had killed so many grasped soft, pale skin to guide him. The boy buried his face in the crook of Negan's neck, little whines escaping him as he let the man control him. He'd almost definitely regret this in the morning. Add it to the list. 

Negan could tell Carl was getting close. The erotic way he gave himself over and used Negan's neck to muffle the string of curses falling from his lips was indication enough. 

"Say you're mine, kid," Negan's words flitted against his hair, "say it and come for me."

The breathless teenager looked up at him. Again, he'd surely regret these words in the morning but they felt so right, "I'm- I'm yours, Negan..." 

One final slow grind of his hips against Negan's thigh was all it took, the man guiding him expertly. He came hard, uttering an unintelligible collection of muffled whines that sounded a lot like the older man's name. 

"Good boy." There it was again; the phrase that made him question his very own being, "next time you touch yourself, I want you to think of me."

Without so much as a shadow of a doubt, he would. Out of everything that had happened during the night and evening, Negan saying those words was what Carl desperately wanted to remember. He was truly fucked.

The night from there was a blur; Carl vaguely recalled having a minor crisis in the bathroom before exiting to find Negan examining a vase like he was in a museum. He was just missing a tourist baseball cap and a selfie stick to complete the image. 

Because he had something to say about _everything_ , he took it upon himself to insult Rick's decor choice, proclaiming that he wanted some of whatever the manufacturers of the vase were on. 

They'd staggered upstairs and fallen into Carl's bed regardless of who might find them there in the morning. He was wrapped up in Negan's arms, not even bothering to fight it anymore, half draped over his body as they slept. 

The next thing Carl knew, the front door slammed and Rick, who'd clearly been briefed by the (rightfully) worried people of Alexandria, urgently yelled his name through the house. The Southern drawl that had somehow managed to skip Carl rang out through the walls. Panic rose in Carl's now decidedly hungover mind and he shoved at Negan, who woke with a grunt. 

"What in the ever-loving motherfuck...?" Was the heartfelt response as Carl untangled their limbs and rushed the man out of his bed. 

"My dad's here! Uh, Richonne's room - pretend you slept there," Carl hissed, hearing Rick jump the first step and ascend towards them, "I don't want to find out what happens if he sees this," he motioned between them. 

Out loud, he yelled "I'm okay," for his panicked dad's benefit. Negan jumped up with surprising agility and bound in the direction of the other bedroom. If Rick saw they'd slept in the same bed, he'd immediately think that Negan forced himself on Carl, and lose it. 

Maybe the events of the night would lead to a better understanding between Alexandria and the Saviors.

**Author's Note:**

> It took so. Much. Willpower. Not to name this fic 'Shenanigans in Alexanigans'; you're welcome.


End file.
